kilim/ by design

Late nights— and still, I awake early to tweet with the birds. 

I’ve brewed coffee as cold as my living room floor and it’s so loud on this side of town, but I turn off my phone and sit on my yoga mat anyway. 

My mat’s not as colorful as the rugs that I remember to be scattered throughout my family’s house. The ones where I’d sit and pray. Really, I’d sit and gaze at the patterns of the silk embroidery and I’d trace circles with my fingers and chase thoughts in my head.

All while I listened to the deafening sound of a ticking wall clock.

I wonder about the weaver overseas whose labor knows not of the corporate greed that exists on the other side of the world, but knows all too well how her hands grew weary from stretching towards heaven. 

I wonder if she puts her trust elsewhere, finding more money than beauty in the struggle. And so she cuts the rug off of the loom so that the warped threads just dangle carelessly like ornaments. 

Or maybe she thinks of me and future generations when she meticulously loops two strands of wool together right before she ties them into one tight knot.

Above all else, I bet that she’s simply too tired to riot. So she prays that by design, a devoted fidgeter like me will pull the loose ends without unraveling her handmade tassels.

I know that the effects of my selfish decisions will someday materialize. I may not have it in me to stop buying new Nikes for my feet and start paying exploited workers what is rightfully owed to them by spending my money more mindfully.

Only when my fingers reach the cross stitches where delicacy meets the sharp edges of the rug’s binding do I recognize the distractions of meditation.

After all these years, I am still jittery and think too far into things to ever sit still.  But, despite my circular thoughts going off on a tangent--- I still find good news: my couch has been delivered to my door today, and in exchange, my money has landed in good hands.